Dreams of Absent Minded Transgression
by evafreed
Summary: Six months after Inception and they're all falling apart in their own twisted little ways. That is, until Saito recruits them for the most difficult job they've ever had. Deconstructing the idea that is the basis of human nature: destroying love.
1. Prologue

**Introduction**

They were dreamers once. They planned, plotted, created and sculpted a world. Like their own, but not. Broken and bruised inside, they escaped to a dream and held ground there. Stood inside their own minds and looked around. Stood inside the mind of another.

A woman slipped, tumbled to her death inside a memory. The dreamer went home to his family. The forger remained blind to the world, to many things. The architect longed to imagine again. The chemist accomplished everything he'd ever wanted. The tourist scrambled for higher ground. The point man fell into something deeper and darker then anything he'd faced before.

And the mark remained in stasis, unaware his life had ever been under their influence. He did not know that the dreamers had infected and invaded him.

He did not know that they were about to do it again.

xxxxx

It starts off slowly.

America is the same as it's always been. Eames adores it. Paris is dignified, cultured, and Eames has no taste for such things. He likes his countries fast and dirty, and America is as filthy as it gets. He gets into a bar fight his first night back, then takes the man home for fumbled sex in the little hours of the morning. He gets into an argument at the supermarket with the checkout girl who charges him five cents extra, takes her home, tears off her ugly polyester shirt, lets her do the same to his paisley. Eames is polite, British as ever when they wake up in the morning, offers breakfast, clarifies that this is a one night stand deal for the second time.

He lives in this way for a couple of months.

Eames buys an apartment, makes it messy with his possessions, shipped from Europe. CD's litter the floor and bright clothes hang over his living chairs. He sips tea at the little table in his kitchen made for one. Listens to_ The Kills _and plays a lot of video games. He's rich as hell, but he's careful with the illegal money, spends it slowly as possible. Nobody gets suspicious. Nobody cares about Quincy Thomas Eames.

The days fly by in a flurry of gambling, sex, and video games. Vegas is great. Eames eats a lot of microwavable meals and misses the basics like homemade macaroni and cheese. He touches his totem a lot. Rubs the familiar grooves of the red poker chip. But no dream would ever be this mundane, this casual.

Eames isn't happy, but he's content enough.

Soon, things begin to speed up. Months fly by until it's the middle of September and a near half year has passed since the inception. The event that changed everything. Eames begins to get jittery, to get uncomfortable. He has more sex- feels it less. It becomes more of a routine then a pleasure. A rut.

Gambling, he throws money away, forgets strategy. Eames begins to itch so hard, he can't sleep. His own skin feels like it's crawling, like it's about to walk off his body and he doesn't dream anymore. When he falls asleep, the images are so fraught with grayscale that it's difficult to make things out. He used to be able to see colors in dreams, to finally make out the feeling everyone seems to go on and on about.

"I dream of PASIV." He says drunkenly to the next man he takes home, when he's trying to take Eames's cock into his mouth, trying to rouse it into some state of hardness. The man looks up at him in confusion. Eames pushes his head back down.

But of course, that's just the monochromacy, the hypocricy, the polygamy talking. That's just another twisted piece that won't fit into the puzzle. Eames doesn't fit into the puzzle.

He used to, though.

He used to be a dreamer.

xxxxx

It picks up speed.

Ariadne transfers to Princeton instead of risking the flight back to Paris. With her spectacular grades, it's easy enough. She shares her little flat with a grey cat she's dubbed Telephos (who was a greek demi-demi-god known as the god of cities), and doesn't date. Her marks start to slip.

Impossible buildings cover her papers. Arching into the sky with little support, twisting at incredible angles, curving and bending like winds. Unusual colors and sizes. Different.

"You can't just say no to gravity, Ariadne." The professor says wearily, passing back her design with a giant red F on it, circled three times.

She used to be able to. Truth is, Ariadne longs for the creativity the dreamworld brings. The mirrored hallways. Even the thrill, the adreneline the kick brings, the thought of yanking that wire out of her vein and sighing happily, like a drug user, like an addict brings new heat to her heart.

Telephos curls up in her lap and Ariadne absently strokes a hand through his fur. She's got a PASIV stored safely, in a deposit box miles from here. When the urge to bend it again starts to get too strong, she reminds herself how dangerous traveling without a partner can be. Squeezes her eyes shut and forces that image of Mal, lying on the concrete, arms outstretched, face peaceful, blood like a halo, that imagined, awful image, Ariadne forces it into her head and keeps her addiction under control.

The architect spends less time eating, and more time drawing. The thin walls of her apartment are covered in pencil sketches, impossible dreams. Soon, pen overlaps them and Ariadne's bending backwards to draw on the ceiling, the only space left. On many sleepless nights, she can be found standing barefoot on her bed, meticulously inking a spire, a column on the ground above her head.

xxxxx

It tumbles and drives.

Cobb is content. As content as possible, given the circumstances. He doesn't work, and though the bills pile up, he spends his entire day with the children, laughing, smiling. He hasn't dreamt in months. He hasn't had a dream, good or bad, since the Fischer job. A civil hollowness fills his head in lieu of colors and shapes.

He confessed this to Arthur once, in the small hours of the morning, eating chinese on the couch, half watching bond films. Arthur, drunk off sleep, tells him that it's good in a way. No more pain.

In a way.

Cobb reads a lot. To the children. To Arthur, who inhabits the spare guest room now. By himself. Shakespeare. The Bible. Dickens. Palahniuk. Anything he can get his hands on, to help him understand a bit more of human nature. To comprehend this life.

James and Phillipa are happy, they flit around the yard like birds in the dying light. The strangest feeling of deja vu strikes him, and Cobb reaches for his totem to establish that this is real. Just routine. The top tumbles quickly, and Cobb says aloud:

"Oh."

"You're still here." Arthur speaks, but he doesn't look away from the window, doesn't look away from James and Phillipa running back towards the house.

Cobb squeezes his shoulder in a brotherly gesture.

"I should really move out soon."

Cobb nods in agreement. But they've said the exact same thing the month before, and the month before that, and the truth is that Arthur occupies the spare room quietly and comfortably. Brings a certain air to the house. A certain calming aura. In a way, it's like having Mal back.

He wakes up the next morning. He wonders if Ariadne still wears red. He vows to find the numbers. The password. To check.

xxxxx

Yusuf is chasing his dreams, pun not intended. He applies to be a chemistry professor at Princeton and is ecstatic when he's accepted. The time passes quickly and happily, days spent teaching classes, nights spent experimenting and putting himself under and dreaming of whatever. He doesn't linger in the past. He takes a few minutes every day to wish that his makeshift family was still with him and moves on.

One night, when he's Skyping his mother in India, the connection fucks up. Yusuf sighs, closing his mac with a gentle hand. He leaves the apartment in favor of the university lab, which has solid internet. The night is cold for fall. He wraps the dark green jacket around himself, shivering, and when the blissfully warm computer lab welcomes him he sighs happily.

It's mostly empty, save a tall man talking quietly to a young woman in the corner. Yusuf slides into a chair at the opposite end of the computer lab as quietly as possible so he doesn't disturb them. He slides his headphones into the jack of his laptop and is signing into Skype when the man pushes rudely past him, knocking his headphones to the floor.

"Cheers." Yusuf mutters unhappily, reaching down to retrieve the earbuds. He winces when the embaressing_ bloop_ of the Skype sign in fills the room. A quick glance over at the woman still in the corner confirms that she's not cross. Rather, she's got her face turned away from him, knuckles white.

"Er-" Yusuf begins shyly, attempting to maybe ask her for a pencil, or even just to ask if she's okay. But before he can speak again, the woman turns around and there's dark hair cascading down pale, tear stained cheeks.

In his surprise, Yusuf knocks over his chair. The woman is Ariadne.

xxxxx

Ariadne stays at Yusuf's apartment that night. It smells of cillantro and clean sheets. Yusuf insists she takes the bed, but she doesn't spend much time in it, choosing instead to speak with Yusuf about the past few months. They fall asleep in the small hours of the morning, his head on her shoulder.

Over leftover chinese and pizza, she confesses that she wants to go back to the dream space. He confesses that he still thinks about calling Cobb. Asking him to go back.

"Do you have his number?" Ariadne asks urgently, because, Cobb and Arthur and dreamscape is a lethal and wonderful combination. The number was never obtained by her- Cobb bolted from the airport as quickly as possible the last time they saw each other. And Arthur had hailed a cab, the weariness showing on his face. She hadn't wanted to bother them.

Yusuf shakes his head sadly. "But you've been to his house. In the dream, at least. Maybe we could go there. In the dream."

"Mal won't be there?"

"Only if Cobb is." Yusuf says grimly.

xxxxx

Arthur forces his eyes open in a great rush, tries to absorb the light coming at him all too fast. Tries to figure out what these dreams mean, though they're blatantly obvious. He wants to see them all again.

He knows that Cobb has the numbers, adresses, keeps them in little files in his desk. Arthur doesn't want to ask. Doesn't want to be seen as weak. Doesn't want Cobb to figure out that he kind of- it's just that-

Everything feels empty and pointless without Ariadne laughing beside him, without Eames knocking over his chair, without Yusuf to cause explosions and grin sheepishly. He's just happy that Dom's still around to keep him company, although he'll never in a million years admit it.

Arthur scrapes his fingernails over his wrists, leaving digs and marks there. Something to remind him, later, that this moment is real. He's been doing a lot of that lately. The insides of his thighs are covered in bruises from absently pressing his thumbs there. He'd never discuss this with Cobb, knows he wouldn't understand. It reminds him that he is there. In the moment.

But it doesn't matter. The suit covers the bruises easily. Arthur pulls it on, buttons up the sleeves, taking comfort in a familiar routine.

It's far too early for anyone else to be awake, four in the morning and Cobb's accidently left the lights on downstairs. Arthur reaches for the tea, boils the water, stirs, pours in milk, and then he's just standing there, in the middle of the kitchen.

_You're that guy making tea in a suit at four in the morning. _He thinks to himself.

"Eames." Arthur gasps, and promptly drops the mug, which shatters on the ground. His hands go to his face, clutching at the flesh there as if that'll make this moment go a little quicker.

A creaking from the top of the stairs signifies someone else is around. Arthur turns to see Phillipa in the doorway to the kitchen, in nothing but her nightgown.

"Don't come in." Arthur says, sudden and urgent.

She regards him carefully. "You loved another. Once."

_Shit._

"This isn't real, is it." Arthur turns to look out the window, though the clock reads four, the sun is setting. He can see the outlines of figures, shadow people at dusk. Mal. Cobb. James. Ariadne. Eames. Yusuf. Himself. Laughing. Hugging. Touching.

His movements feel sluggish and slow, and when Phillipa hands him a kitchen knife, Arthur touches it gently to his chest. "Where's my world?" He asks her, sadly.

She thinks about it for a minute. "It used to be out there." Points to where they are now gathered, sitting, talking in hushed tones. "But now I think it's in here." Arthur's projection of Phillipa pushes the blade of his knife forward, gently, slowly, and in a rush he's awake again, up in bed, panting, shaking hands clutching roughly at his dice, ignoring the ache in his chest.

xxxxx

(People tend to assume that Cobb corrupted Arthur and Mal, forced them into dreamsharing with blue eyes and an easy smile. But it wasn't like that. It's never like what people think.

Arthur and Mal were friends first.)

xxxxx

He'd never really given up on the idea of being his father. A Fischer is a Fischer is a Fischer, Maurice had said once, and he's beginning to think he was right. Though he's sold the company to the highest bidder, Robert can't shake off the feeling of disappointment that nearly radiates from every person the minute he walks in through those company doors to check up on things.

They'd kept him on as an employee, and a higher up, too. It was a kind gesture, but in a way, it felt forced. Like a mockery.

And yet- Sophia is beautiful, and he will marry her. And he will have more money then ever. That's not why, though. To be perfectly honest- she's the sort of girl Maurice Fischer wouldn't have approved of.

It's been a long time since his teenage years. It's been six months since his father died. Robert is still rebelling, in his own small ways.

He bought a green tie yesterday. He's been staring at it for hours at a time. Simply put- he's afraid.

xxxxx

And just like that, it comes to a screeching, grinding halt.

"Mr Cobb."

"...is this who I think it is?"

"Meet me in Sydney. The opera house. As soon as possible. I have a business proposition for you."

"...Saito?"

"Bring Arthur."

_Click._


	2. Chapter 1

**I.**

_Curiouser and Curiouser_, Uncle Arthur reads to them. The dinner table always seemed like an odd place to read to James, and yet, that was where they sat with Uncle Arthur. Sometimes, James thought that Uncle Arthur was scary, but Phillipa wasn't afraid of him, and Daddy wasn't afraid of him, and so James wasn't afraid of him either.

It is almost past Bedtime, and James is getting sleepy, rubbing his eyes, but he's not about to say that to anyone. James can hear the soft_ talk talk talk _of Daddy in the background, and after a little bit, Daddy's voice gets sharper, like when Phillipa throws a fit or when James leaves his toys out or even when Uncle Arthur (who has never liked his nickname) lets James and Phillipa watch the Animal Channel where sometimes sharks and lions eat things and there's lots of blood.

Uncle Arthur is just getting past a boring bit when Daddy bursts into the room, eyes wild and scary big.

Uncle Arthur stands immediately. _Saito?_ He asks.

(Uncle Arthur is very good at knowing what Daddy's thinking. They have been friends for a long time, since Before Mummy Went Away)

Daddy nods, gnawing at a nail. _James- Phillipa- bed._

_But Daddy- _Phillipa protests. She's only nine, but insists that she's a teenager.

_Now._ Daddy says, and his tone makes it clear that there's no room for argument.

xxxxx

"Why would you do it?" Arthur questions, rolling his dice calmly. Four. Four. Four. Cobb watches, hypnotized.

"The money will be good."

Arthur snorts. "You could have- oh, I don't know, taken your fair share on the first Fischer job."

"This is the last one." Cobb says desperately (though he doesn't mean it). "This is the last one, I swear, and then I'll have enough money so that I never need to do it again. I promise, Arthur..."

Arthur sees right through his bold lie. Arthur, who has always been better at finding a lie then Eames (who lies all the time) but can never seem to figure out his own lies. "You're such a junkie. You just want to dream again without feeling guilty."

"But she won't be there." Four. Four. Four.

"...I don't think so."

"Cobb..." Four four four four four four.

"Arthur. Just say you'll come. Please. I need you. I can't do this alone, not without you, Arthur, please..."

Four. Stop.

"Did I ever say I wouldn't?"

And then Arthur's smiling at him, actually smiling, with the same gentle, rare look that Cobb's grown accustom to over the years. The softening around those usual harsh crescent-moon eyes that Cobb's sure was taught to him by Mal. The dimples around his mouth that Cobb's learned to map out just in case they happen, because every time Arthur smiles, it takes him utterly by surprise.

The first time they met, Arthur was a mere annoyance to Cobb, a cocky kid in a suit that was too big around the wrists. _Be nice_, Mal had whispered, and it was the first time he'd met her, too, but he listened and he learned and over time Arthur matured into a startling, bizarre man. A man who laughed at all the wrong jokes and had the reserved attitude of someone who knew how to get it done, and who did get it done, someone who had set the scene for Mal and Cobb's first kiss, a person who knew how to slip out discreetly but stay around long enough to tease, afterwards.

He had always struggled with what to call Arthur._ I work with him. He's friends with Mallory. He's my partner._ But what Cobb was beginning to realize, and not in the slightest bit mind, was that he and Arthur were something odder then that. Over years of empty dreams, and clean breaks, and four A.M. dinners, and broken wineglass stems, and buying baby clothes in Los Angeles and coming home to find his Point Man sleeping on the couch with his arm around Cobb's children-

They were friends.

Arthur rolls his dice.

"Where are we meeting him?"

"Sydney."

Four.

"Now?"

"Now."

Four.

"What are we waiting for?"

xxxxx

Ariadne's hair is a lot shorter then Yusuf had remembered.

"Did you cut it?" He asks as she sets up the PASIV in his living room, eyebrows furrowed at the task.

"Cut what?" Ariadne asks absently, pulling a bobby pin from her pocket to pick at something. She's become far more adept at this since the Fischer job, Yusuf thinks. Maybe she's been practicing. Doing research.

"Never mind." Yusuf lies down on the bathroom floor next to her. It's the only space in her cramped (but comfortable) flat that's available to use for this. "Are you ready?"

Ariadne draws in a deep breath. She looks- unsettling, far too much like Mal, dark, wispy hair spread across white tile. It would be all too easy to imagine that stain of red blossoming around her pale face.

"I think that I am."

And in a moment, in a thought that he's not entirely sure is his own, Yusuf reaches over and takes her hand, gently. He looks at her, black eyes boring into brown.

"I think you are too."

Before it all fades away, before the pinch of the needle in his arm takes the Chemist far from here, Yusuf can see a pencil sketch on the ceiling. Penrose steps, that somehow shape a cross.

_Faith, _he thinks, _would be nice right around now._

Then_- darkness_.

xxxxx

Her nose is pressed against the glass elevator, watching the ground shoot up towards her.

"This seems familiar." Yusuf says suspiciously.

"Toronto." Ariadne says, unsticking her face. "Cobb says that we're not supposed to draw from what we know, but he's not here to stop me."

Ariadne feels giddy with guilt, slamming the open door button far before they come to a stop at the ground. She marches out, followed closely by Yusuf, wringing his hands.

"I know that this might seem too good to be true, after months, but we're just here to practice, remember-"

"Relax," Ariadne says, laughing. "I have a partner. I'm safe."

"All the same." Yusuf glances around awkwardly. "Don't- don't change things too much."

Ariadne whirls around, fixing him with a grin. She feels dangerous. She feels daring. She feels powerful. She feels like Eames.

Not so much as checking her totem, Ariadne looks up at the CN tower, a building she's seen on the skyline for most of her childhood. She flexes the inside of her mind, reaches, and with a creak- the tower shoots up into the sky, windows and glass paneling melding until the whole building is made of warped glass, reflecting a blue jay out of the corner of Ariadne's eye a thousand times over, like a fly.

"Very nice." Yusuf says anxiously. "Please-"

"Calm down, darling," Ariadne says, almost as a reflex, and something under her skin bubbles in an unsettling way. They look in the mirror that she's made of the CN tower, and it's apparent immediately. The bottom right reflection, one of a thousand, has changed from the now franticly chirping blue jay to that of a grinning Eames. But at the same time, it's Ariadne.

"Oh." says Ariadne, who can feel the tilt of the accent creeping into her voice. "Oh, I _did_ that. What else could I do."

The projections haven't even bothered with being rude to Yusuf first. They are crossing the open square of concrete. Two are already flanking him. Ariadne pays little heed. "Push me backwards." He says urgently, "Wake me up, push me off my feet, please, Ariadne-"

_"She doesn't live here anymore,_" one of the Projections holding Yusuf shouts, grinning as though it's a joke, and Ariadne can see that it's Arthur. She can't decide what's more eerie, that fact that her projection of him wears a suit covered in little Union Jack pins and pinpricks of blood or that "Arthur" is smiling toothily, reminding her of a crocodile.

"Ariadne-" Yusuf shouts, struggling against the holds of Arthur and Cobb, struggling against the pull they have over him. "WAKE UP, WAKE ME UP," He begs, echoing her thoughts.

"Where's my gun?" She asks frantically. "Where's my gun?"

_you're waiting for a train _They chorus, and suddenly the building echoes Mal, in all her splendor, laughing at a joke Ariadne will never be in on.

"Ariadne-"

_She just doesn't live here anymore_

"My gun, I need my gun-"

(but you were never much cop with a gun anyways, you helpless thing)

_have you ever been in love?_

"ARIADNE, PLEASE, WAKE US UP,"

_no. i regret nothing_.

_"_MY GUN, PLEASE, PLEASE, GOD, MY GUN-"

_NO I REGRET NOTHING_

_she doesn't live here anymore_

"ARI-"

_as long as you're together_

"NO-"

_...darling._

xxxxx

(When you love someone, it's often far too easy to think that you'll be together forever. But that's rarely true. Eames's first shag gathered up his clothes and left in the morning. Ariadne's most recent boyfriend moved to New Mexico. Cobb and Mal were forever, but he wasn't willing to follow her.

Not into the dark.)

xxxxx

Cobb made them write letters on the Fischer job.

Eames thinks of this suddenly and startlingly at the kitchen table, gulping down a hot mug of tea at nearly one in the afternoon. It's a rainy day, perfect for taking that pretty redhead at the DMV home for some sex and more of those latkes she makes. But that's not what he's thinking of. He's thinking of the letters. Who has them.

"Just a precaution," Cobb has said, "Just something to leave behind, just in case anything happens- get out your emotions, so there's nothing dangerous in the dream-"

Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse, Cobb makes them write letters to loved ones, write things they wish they'd said, to be delivered in case of death.

It's an illegal job, dreamsharing is. Dangerous and illegal, filthy and raw.

Ariadne writes to her father in Canada. Yusuf; his current girlfriend. Cobb probably writes to his kids, or maybe to his father.

Eames has no idea who Arthur wrote to. For some reason, the thought of Arthur sitting at some stiff hotel desk with a pen clutched in hand, trying desperately to think of someone he loves, brings a bit of a lump to Eames's throat.

So he wrote Arthur a letter, because why the hell not. It's mostly teasing and sharp, but there's a gentle undertone that Eames hopes he never catches. There's jabs at Arthur's suits and his unwavering faith that Ariadne won't shout Lost spoilers at him and then Eames can't think of anything else and he realizes that for all his pointed words, he really doesn't know Arthur at all.

Eames has no idea why he thinks of this now.

xxxxx

She stands in the doorway, in her bright yellow nightgown, the one that Uncle Arthur always calls "The Eyesore". It usually attracts Dad's attention quite well, but not tonight. Tonight, he's too busy frantically shoving his clothes into a suitcase.

Phillipa doesn't ask what's going on. She turned nine a few weeks ago. She's not stupid. Dad's going away. Not to the same place Mom went, when she died. Not away forever. Just... away. "Dad?" she asks hesitantly- just to let him know she's there. To not be startled.

"Hello, Phillipa," Dad mutters, slamming the suitcase lid down and attempting to zip. The lid is up a bit and it doesn't work. Dad says a swear. "Would you mind sitting on this for me, honey?" He doesn't mention the fact that it's far past bedtime, even the fact that it's past midnight. Phillipa complies. Dad zips the suitcase closed and stands back, satisfied with his work.

"James is worried," Phillipa states, picking at the comforter. "He thinks you're going to die, like Mom, or that you won't come back, like last time, or that-"

Dad's eyebrows crease and his eyes squint like they always do when he worries. "Phillipa, there's no possible way I'm not coming back. I promise, things are different now. And I'll have Uncle Arthur with me. It'll all be okay. It's only for a couple months."

"I didn't say me" Phillipa begins, irritated. "I said James, he-" The look on Dad's face stops her. She starts picking at the comforter again.

"I'm going to leave the two of you with Grand-dad this time. And, I sent Uncle Arthur out to get some food that you like, and some new movies and toys and books-" Dad says desperately. She can tell what he's saying. He's asking her not to be mad at him.

Phillipa is filled with a sudden rush of affection for her father, and leaps at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. He clutches at her, holds her the same desperate way. "I love you, baby."

"I love you back," Phillipa say, voice muffled by tears and his sweater. "I love you back, Daddy."

xxxxx

(They sleep in Ariadne's apartment that night, too shaken by the dream experience to return to their own homes immediately. Ariadne sleeps in her own room, and lets Yusuf take the couch, mostly because she doesn't want to seem needy. But in reality, what she wants is to be curled someone's arms, because frankly, she's afraid that she'll be trapped forever, and never be able to wake up.

And though things went wrong, she wants desperately to get back to the PASIV.)

xxxxx

He finds Eames in a casino. More correctly, his associates find Eames in a casino.

"I'd like to offer you a job, Mr. Eames." Saito says, clearly and directly, once they're both in the backseat of the limosoine. Eames glares, quite rudely.

"The last job you had me on, I nearly got killed." Eames spits at Saito, crossing his arms. "Mostly because of your stupidity. No thanks, mate."

"I'm willing to offer sums of up to ten million. You'd never have to work again."

Eames sullenly stares out of the window, watching the Las Vegas lights pass by. "I said no."

"I'm also willing to threaten you."

"Go ahead."

"Anything you want."

"No."

And then Saito smiles, because although he knows it, Eames doesn't know it, and Saito knows- he absolutely knows- what Eames wants most of all. He's got influence, after all.

"You'll be reuniting with your old team, plus a few extras. I told Cobb that we need an extra architect, extra forger, extra point ma-"

"I'll take it." Eames interrupts. "I'll take the job. We headed to the airport?"

"Yes," Saito says. "Australia. My associates packed you a bag. It seemed neater."

xxxxx

_Ariadne,_

_The details of the job are clear. Find Fischer. Enter his subconcious. Implant an idea. A simple idea- that could change his very world. _

_Make Robert Fischer believe that he does not love his fiance. _

_It will be difficult. It will be dangerous. But you're good with those._

_The old team is reuniting. Meet us at the address inclosed. It's a warehouse in Toronto._

_I can't say much more. But hurry. _

_Cobb_


End file.
